Those who endure
by TheRealSokka
Summary: Small excerpts from the lives of the people we meet in Lordran, Drangleic and Lothric. To some, the Chosen Undead/Bearer of the Curse/Ashen One is just an episode, for others, it means much more. Be it one or the other, they all cope with the world they live in.
1. Stories of Fire, Stories of Faith

**Stories of Fire, Stories of Faith**

* * *

-The blind saint sits in her alcove. Next to the candles, providing light she cannot see. Her hand rests on the tomes next to her. Unread, now, for many days. Her empty gaze glides of over the stones. She sits there in complete silence: Irina can't even find the will to cry.

-She yearns for a voice, for a touch. But nothing disturbs her solitude. Nothing but the little creatures, gnawing away at her. She has long ago stopped fighting them, and now they are her only company. The cold stones at her feet, the darkness all around her. Her cowering in the nothingness, like a scared little child.

-She trembles when she imagines what her companion must think of her. _Pathetic_ , he would say. That's what it is, she knows it. She can't even ask him for his sword.

-For a moment, she had had hope. Just a tiny flicker, but it was there. But he has gone now, too. Left her, like everybody has…

-"What is troubling you, child?"

-The voice rips her out of her thoughts. Her eyes open in confusion, staring into the void. It was no imagination. She hasn't heard this voice before, yet she feels no fear, just relief that the silence is gone, even just for a moment. But- no one ever visits her here…Why should they? "Who is there?" she calls, suddenly suspicious.

-She hears a quiet chuckle. "Just a bored old man. You have nothing to fear from me, my dear." His voice does sound ancient. It is not the voice of a killer. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

-"What do you want? I'm afraid I am not very good company…"

-"I just wanted to talk. May I sit with you?"

-She nods, maybe a bit too eagerly. She tries not to show her relief too much.

-She can hear him sit down, clearing his throat: "I do believe we have a common acquaintance, you know? My pupil often visits you when he comes back from his journeys."

-A memory surfaces. He has told her of this old man. "You- are you his master? The one that teaches him pyromancies?" she asks, suddenly pensive.

-A cough. "Was. I don't have much left to teach him, I fear. He has learned pyromancies that I have never even heard of; I can hardly call him pupil anymore." She thinks she can hear sadness in his voice: "So No, I am no master."

-It sounds too familiar. "I have nothing left to teach him either." she admits hesitantly. A question pushes through, demands attention. Her body straightens. She has to know: "Does he- does he visit you, still?"

-There is a slight pause. "Sometimes, yes. To chat a little, mostly. Or to show me something new he has found." He laughs suddenly: "I suppose, in a way I am his pupil now."

-She nods, her heart numb. Like she expected. She turns her head away to not let him see her tears.

-His voice suddenly becomes soft: "He always speaks kindly of you, you should know that. You are a great help to him…"

-"Not anymore." she whispers. "I don't know any more. I've told every tale I knew! He doesn't come here at all now." A bitter cry breaks from her lips: "Why should he?! I'm no use without something to tell."

-"Is that how you see yourself? Just a means for someone to gain knowledge?" It sounds almost scolding.

-That sparks defiance in her. Irina raises her head: "I help. It gives me a purpose. It's better than just…just…" Her resolve falters and her shoulders slump. "Than just sitting here alone with my failure" she finishes quietly.

-"Your failure?" He sounds honestly curious.

-Tears well in her eyes and she lowers her head.

-A sigh. "Forgive me; that was not tactful." She can hear him standing up. "Forget that I asked. I won't bother you anymore."

-"No!" she cries. The movements stop. She turns her head away: "Just…stay for a moment? Please?"

-A moment of silence, then he sits back down in front of her. His old bones creak as he does so. She can feel his attentive gaze on her.

-Hesitantly, she begins: "You know, in my home of Carim, I was a nun. The epics the sisters told me were wonderful. And I always loved hearing new tales." She shakes her head: "But that's not why I came here. Not for the miracles. I- I wanted to be a Fire Keeper" she confesses.

-"That is a noble cause."

-Her voice shakes: "I couldn't. I am weak. Unfit to tend the flames. They burned me as I tried. They laughed at me…"

-There is a long moment of silence. He seems to hesitate. "I'm sorry." He takes a deep breath: "The flames are not evil, you know? They don't take pleasure in hurting you. I'm sure you could…"

-"You are a pyromancer!", a desperate cry breaks from her lips. "You can control it; you don't need to fear it! I'm not like you; I'm not…I can't…I…"

-A hand rests on her shoulder. It breaks through the darkness surrounding her; the little creatures hiss and retreat at the heat around his fingers: "Child, everybody fears the fire. Those who claim they don't are fools. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

-"I tried." It's barely a whisper. "I tried so many times. It never lets me get close; it hurts me." She casts down her sightless eyes: "It hates me."

-She hears the old man sigh: "Fire can have a mind of its own, 'tis true. I learned that myself." The grip on her shoulder tightens: "But fire is not only destruction. It is life, light, _warmth_. It can be a friend, if you let it."

-"Not to me."

-The hand leaves her shoulder.

-She is surrounded by darkness once again. By silence. She hugs her knees. _Now he has gone, too..._ She can't reproach him; she wouldn't want to be in her company either. But now she is alone once again. The little creatures approach again, she can feel them, the tiny fangs tearing into her skin…

-A quiet crackling reaches her ears.

-She flinches at the sound. Instinctively, she raises her arms in expectation of the pain. But there is something that gives her pause. This is not an angry roar, nor a pained scream. It is quiet, distant. Somehow, it is soothing. So quiet…

-She has no explanation why, but then she is on her knees and crawling towards it, as if under a spell. It gets warmer and warmer. Her movements become slower and slower. She stops. It is right in front of her, she can feel it. Suddenly, she is afraid. "What- What should I do?" she calls into the darkness.

-No answer.

-Irina makes her decision. She knows it will hurt again, but she has to try, has to know. A tentative hand reaches out. Closer to the quiet crackling. _It is so warm…_

-From her fingertips, something spreads through her body. It is as if her veins catch fire. The flames dance behind her eyelids; it is blindingly bright. She gasps. The fire is running all over her, setting every inch of her ablaze. It is frightening: She wants to scream, but the fascination is stronger. She stays there, motionless.

-The burning feeling recedes. The warmth runs up and down her arms, her legs, her stomach, before accumulating in her chest. It nestles there, still crackling faintly. She listens to it, spellbound. Like in a trance, she presses a hand to her chest, feeling what she thinks must be a dream:

-A second heart is beating in her chest. Waves of fire run through her every time it beats, they wash the little creatures away from her skin. She can still feel them. But they can't touch her: Something glows within her, keeping them at bay. And with every beat, it spreads warmth throughout her, enwraps her in it, tells her it is there.

-She is no longer alone.

-Tears well in her eyes and she lets out an unrestrained sob. _How…? The old man, he…_

-"Th-thank you!" she calls into the darkness.

-She hears him laugh: "I'm the one who should be thanking you, child." His voice grows more distant: "Come visit me sometime. Tell me a story. From what I hear you are a gifted storyteller." His footsteps recede, leaving the saint alone in the darkness.

-Only she isn't alone anymore. She leans back against the cold walls and allows the tears to fall, keenly aware of her surroundings. Suddenly she lets out a giddy laugh. She wants to jump up and rejoice.

-The sound of metal scraping on metal approaches. Heavy boots click on the stones.

-"What did the old soot want?" The rasping voice is full of suspicion. To someone who doesn't know him, it would sound threatening.

-Irina laughs and smiles up at him. "Nothing, Eygon." An incredulous laugh rips from her chest. "He gave me something. Something wonderful."

-"Are you alright?" He sounds surprised. She must make an odd sight to him.

-She leans her head against the wall. The warmth beats in her chest. Her eyes close: "I'm warm."

::::::::::::::::

-The Unkindled returns to the shrine with a heavy heart. His friend had been too lost in thought in the past weeks. She needed something to tell, and he had searched high and low for a tome. Even to the dark Cathedral had he ventured, searched every nook and cranny of it…

-He wished it wouldn't have come to this, but there was no other way.

-The familiar sounds of the shrine welcome him. The fire crackles around the coiled sword and Andre's hammering rings through the halls. With a sigh, he makes his way down the stairs, when he becomes aware of another sound. For a second, he thinks his ears deceive him. Then his steps quicken. At the foot of the stairs, he stops in his tracks.

-There she is. She sits on the old carpet, her favourite tome in her hands, and reads aloud. The light voice sounds through the air; it is soothing, as always. He listens, spellbound.

-So does the old pyromancer. He sits opposite of the saint, listening intently. Between them, an orb of fire crackles faintly. Irina is absorbed in her reading, but a quiet smile plays on her lips. It resounds in her voice, makes it sound brighter, _hopeful_.

-In the Unkindled's hands, a black and rotted book suddenly catches fire. He tosses it aside without a second look. His feet take him to the pair, and he sits down beside them. At the touch of his hand, Irina turns her head and gives him a smile. Her hand reaches out to him, and he takes it without a word. Then she reads on; a tale of an age long past; a warm voice reverberating through the shrine.

* * *

' _ **Warmth',**_ **Pyromancy**

 **Requirements: 25 Faith**


	2. Companion of Mine

**Companion of Mine**

* * *

-The companion's eyes fix on his foe. His muscles tense up and he takes a wide leap, gripping his sword tighter. It sings through the air in a perfect arc as he brings it down upon its target with all his might. With a strangely muted sound it cuts into it, deep enough to hit bone.

-It barely notices. The sword is wrenched from his grip as it turns, red eyes burning into the wasp that dares to sting it. A giant hammer descends upon him, impossibly fast. With a quick jump he is out of reach, as the weapon shatters the ground where he stood a second ago.

-The monstrosity draws back its arm for another blow when a loud yell reaches its ears. He sees it turn its head in irritation, just as his friend leaps at it and aims for one of its eyes. He cuts deep, extinguishing the red light. The thing lets out a roar, swinging wildly at the attacker, who is already back on his feet and narrowly manages to block the tantrum with his shield. Meanwhile, the companion circles around, waiting for an opening.

-Then the giant hand descends. The fighter abandons his defense and rolls to the side, the limb crashing into the ground inches away from him.

-His companion is already flying towards the arm, aiming for his sword sticking out of its side. He knows the monster is too slow to prevent it. His fangs get a hold of the hilt. With effort he wrenches it free and aims for another blow.

-And feels a sickening crunch as the giant hammer hits his legs. The force of the blow throws him backwards; his sword flies from his grip. He lands at the very edge of the plain, the abyss right behind him. The pain is almost too much. Somehow, he manages to stand up and take a few steps, before one of his legs gives way under his weight. He just manages to catch himself with the other three. Then he looks up.

-The dark thing is coming down on him in a blur. Some feet away from him, it jumps into the air, raising both hammer and hand to bring them down on him simultaneously. He tries to limp out of the way, only to realize that the creature is too fast. He turns his head away in expectation of the pain.

-It doesn't come. A loud metallic clang rings above him, the force of the blow makes the earth tremble. His eyes open in surprise.

-His companion stands over him, shield raised. Somehow, he has blocked the deadly hit. The thing takes a few uncertain steps back, evidently surprised that the fighter is not a pile of bones on the ground. But while he watches, the mighty shield quivers and the arm holding it falls limply to his friend's side. A giant effort to raise it again, in vain. He is defenseless. A tremor goes through him. As if all the wounds from the fight just now took effect, he suddenly falls to his knees.

-The companion limps to him, nudging his side. His friend looks at him and rests a hand on his shoulder. His mouth manages a sad smile, but in his eyes he sees something new, something that was never there before. With a shock, he realizes that it is despair.

-The ground trembles at the pounding of giant feet. They look up to see the shadowy figure creep closer. A giant hand reaches out to them. Fury burns in its remaining eyes. With a last effort they pick up their swords, knowing well that it won't matter.

-The creature halts, with its hand hovering above them. Its head turns, like it had heard something. Suddenly, the red stare leaves them. As if it had completely forgotten about them, the thing turns and stomps away, the hand retreating into the darkness. The echoes grow more distant. He looks after it, waiting for another trick, but nothing comes shooting out at them. The thing just walked away.

-He blinks and looks more closely. Behind the dark and twisted outline of the monster, he thinks he can see a white dot in the far distance. But he can't be sure, and in this moment it is irrelevant. His friend yells at him to run, and he does.

-After a few paces, he notices that no one is by his side. Turning around, he sees that his companion is limping heavily; the blow must have taken a severe toll.

-Can't keep fighting like this; have to get him out!

-With new determination he breaks into a painful run, scouring the edges of the plain. He finds the way: Up the twisted path leading up to the precipice where the giant hand grabbed them. Over the fallen pillar bridging the bottomless chasm, treading carefully on the loose stones. Keep going. His gaze turns back again and again. He doesn't trust it.

-Halfway across, an unearthly roar rises from the deep: Whatever distracted the monster, it has now noticed its prey escaping. A wave of blind hate surges and washes over them, making him shiver in previously unknown terror. He urges his friend on to hurry. Just get out of here.

-On the other side, finally. Out of reach of the thing. Limping towards the exit, side by side. His legs hurt with every movement. Only a little further now…

-Where is it?

-There is no path, only a wall of blackness, blocking their way. Their steps falter and stop. The wall stretches out infinitely to both sides. His hairs stand on end: The same hate like the monster's is emanating from the dark, he can feel it. Stand very still, not even daring to breathe.

-Then the darkness moves. Inch by inch, devouring the path in front of them, it creeps closer. Eyes appear in the mist, ghostly white. Emotionless stares fix on the pair, as the things advance in complete silence.

-Their swords cut into the darkness, tearing it to shreds. It dies without a sound. He swings at two things in front of him; they dissolve. Another one emerges out of the darkness behind them; he takes a leap and cuts it right in two. Behind him, his companion's sword slices the air; destroying a shadow inches away from him, while a pair of eyes creeps up behind his back. With a growl he jumps over his shoulder and cuts it down. Then he turns back around:

-There are five more of the things. And behind them, dozens and dozens again, steadily advancing.

-Not good. His eyes dart around the blackness for a way out; and find one. A ledge, barely visible, with no shadow-things on it, but high; impossibly high. Not a second to waste. He turns and runs, crouching beneath the ledge. A second later, his friend jumps on his back and climbs upwards. He rolls over the edge and his good arm reaches down, pulling him up behind him.

-They run, as fast as they can. They don't need to turn around to know that the things are behind them. More and more join them from all sides. Are they infinite? No, there has to be a gap somewhere, somewhere has to be a way out…

-There. An opening in the rock. Hurried strides carry them through the narrow passage, with the shadows close behind. They emerge onto a barren plain, hurrying onward. Not for long. They slow down, disbelieving.

-Before their eyes, an abyss yearns, a pit with no bottom. Hurried looks glide over the walls, searching for another opening, but there is none. No path, no ledge, no way out. A quick glance exchanged. Behind them, the shadows pour out of the passage.

-They turn around to face them. He lets his eyes glide over the mass of darkness. His companion looks at him, a silent question. He growls; of course he understands: He knows they won't get out. He grips his sword tighter.

-His friend shakes the useless shield off his arm and lowers it to the ground. It has a sense of finality. Both raise their swords, back to back as the shadows surround them. A snarl: They would not get them easy.

-Suddenly, his friend kneels down and rests his good arm on the shield, lowering his sword.

-What are you doing?

-His lips are moving, but he can't hear what he is saying. Why would you abandon your guard now? Not that the why matters; the shadows see the opening and move forward as if on a silent signal. He swings his sword to keep them at bay, but they won't slow down. His friend still crouches over the shield, uncaring that they are all around him.

-He snarls, preparing to jump to his side and protect him…

-Something leaves his companion and pours into the shield. It begins to glow faintly. The shadows halt for a second, then they swarm him.

-And are pushed back by a wave of light. Prepared to jump, he freezes. Not trusting his eyes.

-A protective circle of light emanates from the shield. A quick look around. He is completely surrounded by the glow. The shadows try to enter and fail; their essence dissolving at the contact. They are safe?

-His friend is on the outside.

-No!

-He takes a leap towards him. And the light pulsates and pushes him back, blindingly bright. Picking himself up, he sees his friend swinging at the shadows that now all focus on him.

-He throws himself against the barrier, to no avail. He tears at the shield, but it doesn't move an inch. Outside, the shadows fall, but more and more emerge from the passage. He growls at them, trying to get their attention. They pay him no mind as they swarm his companion.

-Who swings his sword again, gaining a few inches between him and the darkness. Then, suddenly, he turns around.

-Their eyes meet.

-His companion nods. A simple nod. Then he turns away. Limping, his left arm hanging useless at his side, he moves forward, cutting through the darkness with grim strikes.

-He watches helplessly. Further and further away. For a moment, he has hope. Maybe his companion can get through. Then he sees the tunnel, brimming with the dark things; a solid wall of blackness.

-His friend doesn't stop. Without hesitation, he enters. The darkness churns around him, swallowing him greedily. His greatsword sings, the sound muted by the swarm. It is the last he hears of him, as the Wolf Knight's outline vanishes in the dark.

-A desperate howl echoes through the Abyss, unheard by any living being.

* * *

 _ **Companion**_ **: Someone who is closely connected with someone very similar/ Someone that keeps one company**


	3. Just Keep Smithin'

**As they say: And now for something completely different!**

* * *

 **Just keep Smithin'**

- _ **Clang, Clang, Clang.**_

-The hammering can be heard all the way up to the Parish. It borders on monotone; it's a never faltering rhythm. The hollows ignore it: They have long ago learned that it is best not to disturb the old smith. The wayward knight sits in front of the giant gate, waiting, the sound slowly lulling him to sleep once again. A lone Undead enters the tower, halts at the unexpected sound and raises her shield in expectation of a trap. She doesn't know yet that she has entered a small oasis of respite. Below, the creator of the sound hammers away at his steel, not minding any of them; completely focused on his work. The bonfire above crackles faintly, forming a quiet undertone to the hammer's rising and falling.

- _ **Clang, Clang, Clang.**_

-The wary newcomer walks down the stairs, shield still at the ready. She scrutinizes the man behind the anvil for a moment.

-"You're not an enemy, are you?"

-Andre huffs: "Don't look like one, do I? Andre of Astora, blacksmith. If you require smithing, then speak to me."

-The Undead hands him a halberd. A quick inspection of the blade. The smith supresses a sigh: Clearly more walls have been hit with this than foes. He's seen that often enough from those who come from the Parish. Tricky place, that, but that's no excuse.

-"That will need repairing. Handle it with more care, if you would."

-The Undead shrugs: "I've used it a lot lately, that's a normal side-effect I guess. Besides, you can always repair it, right?"

- _No respect_. "I'd appreciate your weapon more if I were you. It's your companion; and if you don't take care of it, it won't take care of you. Might find that out sooner than you'd like."

-She seems to think about that for a while. "You have a point, I guess." She looks faintly embarrassed now: "I'm still getting used to its weight; maybe I've been a bit too enthusiastic with the sweeping attacks. I'll get the hang of it soon."

-The smith hands her back the good-as-new weapon, not without a meaningful look.

-The Undead nods: "I'll take more care, promise." When she walks back up the stairs, Andre is pleased to see that she has grasped the shaft with two hands now. Even after she is out of view, there is no sound of metal on stone.

-That went surprisingly well. Maybe this one will actually follow his advice; she seemed sincere enough. There might just be hope for her, and her halberd.

* * *

- _ **Clang, clang, clang.**_

-A small man with angry slant eyes and headscarf. Katana user; figures. Weapon almost broken, of course. No word of greeting; he just hands him the weapon and peruses the shop. With a shake of the head, the smith gets to work. He'll never understand why those people bother with blades that so easily betray them. And he's skipping through the reinforcement stages with nary a word, too. Hasn't even realized the state of his weapon, it seems. Andre grimaces quietly. This one will be at this church a while. _Would serve him right_.

-Still, as a good smith, he can't just hand out a weapon in such bad shape: A quick repair later, the Katana is on his way again. Andre doesn't even bother with advice about durability. This one won't listen, that much is obvious.

* * *

- _ **Clang, Clang, Clang.**_

-A warrior fully clad in steel. Carrying an impressive greatsword. Looks surprisingly intact, too.

-"You're the smith, right?"

- _Stupid question. Another one with all muscle no intelligence._ "Sure am. Andre of Astora, at your service."

-He actually pats his sword: "I want my little friend here to kill everything in one hit. Can you do that?"

-"Everything? Now, now, that's ambitious, my friend. Hope you got a lot of materials." _This one will need more than basic upgrading_. "Alright: There are two types of weapon forging. There's reinforcement…"

-"Yeah, yeah, I did all that already. Can't you do more than that? If not, I'll just stick with my smithbox."

- _No clue of anything. Doubt he'll even understand Ascension. Still, could prove worth his metal_. "Could do more I s'pose, but I'd need an ember for that." That should be simple enough.

-Still, it seems to be cause enough for a minute of thinking: "Any idea where I can find such an ember?"

-"Hmph, nearest might be that of the fellow up in his tower. You could try borrowing it. Way's right through there, through the forest."

-A nod, and a confident hulk of a warrior walks out the door.

- _ **Clang, clang, clang.**_

- _Bzzzzzzz!_

-A shocked warrior lands back in front of his anvil. Literally shocked; his limbs twitch with electricity. "Therezzzzz a giant black zzzing out there! Zzzshooting lightning!"

-A low giggle: "Old boy's back, ey? Good thing, too, I'm running out of Titanite. Deal with him and get some for me while you're on the way, will ya?"

-He receives a completely aghast look: "How am I supposed to kill that when my weapon barely hurts it?!"

-It's hard to concentrate on his words when his features constantly twitch with the aftershocks, but the smith maintains a straight face: "And how am I supposed to make your weapon hurt it if you have nothing to steady it with? It's give and be given, my friend."

* * *

- _ **Clang, Clang, Clang**_.

-A very young cleric stumbles into his room. Mace and chime. Looking _very_ inexperienced. Keeps looking over his shoulder, as if expecting pursuit.

-"Well, you must be a new arrival." It's not a question; a blind man could see that.

-"Please, I need help!"

-"Sure thing, lad. Gimme your steel, it'll be fixed in no time…"

-"No! Please, it's just; do you have any directions where I have to go?! I've been chased all over the place, and I don't have a map. Nor have I even been given a goal!"

- _Ah_. "Then you should think somethin' up, young 'n! Everyone needs a goal in life, no? Why do you need someone to tell you?"

-An embarrassed mutter: "A map…?"

- _Newcomers_. "Do I look like a map-salesman to you, lad? Ask that shady merchant in the Burg if you must, but I think you're better off without that."

-Relief spreads over his features: "Thanks for the tip! I'll make it up to you, promise!" And with that he's already out again, completely unwarranted optimism personified.

-Andre laughs in amusement. _Can't say I haven't warned him_. Oh well, one double crossing or two might help the newbie settle in. _Better the merchants than that Trusty-backstabber. He really doesn't like clerics…_

* * *

- _ **Clang, Clang, Clang.**_

-The Katana again. He brushes past the smith without a word, choosing the second path leading into Darkroot. Evidently fed up with the bellkeepers, this one. Andre secretly grins to himself: He can't deny a certain satisfaction at the Brittle-blade's annoyance.

 _-Should have bought some quality steel_. _Or listened._ Either would have done.

- _ **Clang. Clang. Clang.**_

-A distinct sound from the bonfire above, and a very bedraggled-looking Undead, full of spikes, comes back down the stairs, muttering something into his scarf. Something about cutting down every last tree he sees. Andre chuckles. They all say that at some point; that forest is still standing. _Control your anger, mate, else it's gonna be a long journey for you_.

* * *

- _ **Clang. Clang. Clang.**_

-Heavy footsteps down the winding staircase. A little hesitant, maybe. Aha, an older acquaintance. Must have been- what, a couple of weeks since this one first showed up? Stuck with one friend all the time, too; a good old claymore. _Trusty steel, wise choice_. Andre is not surprised he has made it this long. He wears shining new armour and looks a little bigger than last time. His arm no longer strains with the weight of the blade; he must have gained some endurance. The smith greets him with a grin; he has earned that respect.

-"Been a long time, pal. Need another upgrade? I'm afraid I'm out of embers at the moment; those newcomers still have no clue where to look. But I do have some Titanite to spare."

-He's more pensive than the smith remembers: "Thanks, but there's no need. I think I'm as ready as I'm gonna get." He pats the blade on his shoulder: "This one has gotten me this far, no need to change anything so close to the end. Look, buddy, I- erm, I'm probably going to burn to death, so I just wanted to say Goodbye. And thanks for all the help, seriously. Wouldn't have made it this far without me' trusty blade and your hammer."

-"Sure thing, don't mention it. 'Tis my purpose after all. Good luck with your task."

-With a wave, he's on his way back up the stairs: "Thanks. And happy smithing!" His footsteps recede, after a moment, the smith can hear him sit down at the bonfire.

- _Shame about this one, truly_. He might actually stand a chance to reach the Kiln, and maybe even overcome it. Only to then face those two-faced serpents and their empty promises. He grunts in disgust. _Why do none of them ever see past them?_ He's had half a mind to tell the warrior. But no; if he doesn't see for himself, it won't matter.

-Whatever choice he makes, it's unlikely to make a difference. Like old Goldy said: Like moths, flittering towards a flame. _**Clang. Clang. Clang**_. And there comes the next one. Spear user for a change.

-Not that it matters. He will stay here with his anvil and offer whatever help he can, to whomever is willing to accept it. Sometimes, someone actually listens, like the Claymore, and maybe the Halberd. That's enough. And besides; there's always demand for smiths.

-The hammering never stops for long. It's been filling the air of this tower for as long as anyone can remember. To Andre, it's his task, and one that he happily fulfils. For the wanderers, it is one of the few constants in this dreary place. Whether they learn to appreciate it or not.

* * *

 **Never skip and old blacksmith's advice; he knows his stuff.**


	4. Have thy rest, Champion

**I wrote this before I started _Those Who Endure_ , and I just now got around to add it here.**

* * *

 **Have thy rest, Champion**

A world without fire is a strange thing indeed. The silence is endless, the darkness infinite. To someone who enters here, it is unsettling, _wrong_. To their mind, this world doesn't exist until they shine a light upon it.

To him, the darkness holds no meaning anymore. To him, it is the absence of light, nothing more, nothing less. It is no Abyss waiting to swallow all existing things, it is no paradise where death is just a mirage.

It just exists.

And he exists within it, unmoving, silent. Waiting.

The world is peaceful; sometimes, one could simply forget to keep living, and it would change nothing.

Only the weight of the iron pressing on his skin keeps him from drifting off into an unending dream. The heavy chains, they bind him to his duty still. But it is no longer the duty he was meant to fulfil.

No longer does he pursue the Flame.

Once, he had spent eternities staring into the blackness. Wondering, watching, for just a small spark, a hint of an ember, a sign that there was hope, however fragile.

The darkness knew no end.

He had failed.

And he had accepted it.

Sometimes, the white haired woman still steals into his dreams. He longs for her presence, keenly as ever. But the guilt has long ago vanished. In his mind, she smiles at him. She doesn't reproach him. Why should she; to the sightless, darkness has no meaning.

No, he has made peace with his failure. But still he lingers, waiting, listening…

Footsteps disturb the silence.

Here they come again. The searchers. The fireless wanderers. _Fools_.

They are like him; they seek the fire. For a perceived higher purpose, because somebody told them to, or for plain greed.

It makes no difference.

Sometimes he just wants to lie down and let them pass. Let them see their future, the inevitability of it.

But he doesn't. They would not understand like he has. They would find the secrets hidden within, and they would use them for their own selfish goals. Because in the end, they fear the darkness, the unknown. They don't realize that the world they are trying to save is already dead.

A light shines upon his tomb. The footsteps approach, falter, stop. For a few fleeting moments, the silence returns. Then, the sound of steel scraping on a scabbard.

They don't ever turn around.

Cold metal brushes against his arm as he rises, as his fingers tighten around the shaft. The last insignia of his past life, the only thing his memory clings onto. They made it for him, so long ago, when he set out on his task. _Friends_. Their names are long forgotten. They meant well.

The halberd slices the air, the ancient metal gleaming in the faint light. The latest opponent retreats slowly, shield raised.

Someday, one will come to overpower him. Someday, a worthy opponent will deliver him his death. On that day, he will gladly lie down.

But not without a fight. That much is certain. He may have forgotten his name. He does remember what he is.

A champion.

A champion never gives up without a fight.


	5. Never To Come Home

**Requested by _Chrosis_. Hope I've done them justice.**

 **Since the DLC just dropped and I'm busy dying to Angels and Dragons, this will probably be the last one for some time. Have a good read.**

* * *

 **Never To Come Home**

The streets of Irithyll sparkle in the moonlight.

Patches of pure white snow line the corners and rooftops, envoys of the long winter that holds the city. Icicles hang from the buildings, reflecting the faint blue light in peculiar ways. A layer of hoarfrost covers everything, from the smooth pavestones to the swords and scythes of Irithyll's knights; it crunches under their feet as they walk the streets. Their breaths form misty clouds in the still air. A peaceful silence permeates the city, as if sound itself had been frozen here.

Rising above the streets, the Pontiff's chapel looks over the quiet city, its rising stone archways an unwavering reassurance. From any point in the city, the people can see its outline against the blue crescent in the sky; and they have no fear of tomorrow. For the moon still sets in Irithyll and the Pontiff keeps watch.

Those who look out their windows today see a lonely figure descend the stairs of the chapel. A tall knight, bearing a luminescent straight-sword and the Pontiff's crest. His strides are slow, but determined; the moonlight casts dark shadows on his blue plate. The knights patrolling the streets make way for him. A few raise their curved swords in respect as he approaches. Yet none speak to him, for he is one of them no longer.

As he moves past, his eyes take in every detail of the sparkling streets he has walked so many times, embedding them in his mind. For as long as he can remember, the stillness of winter has accompanied him; and he knows not what awaits him outside. Not serenity akin to this, that much is certain.

The plaza comes into view sooner than he would have liked. Beyond the statues in the centre, a stone archway marks the boundary of the ancient city. The air beneath it shimmers with something other than moonlight. The knight's steps become slower, as hesitation creeps in. He halts at the foot of the shining barrier. For a long moment, he remains still, his breath held. Then, with quick strides, he walks through it, into the outside.

He can see the white flowers bloom on the chilled waters of the lake below as his feet crunch over the rime-covered stones of the bridge; every one of them a last farewell of the Valley. Far away, the mighty walls and towers of the distant kingdom of Lothric loom high up on their mountain. Yet he won't have to go that far; his destination is closer.

Across the bridge and along the mountainside. The knight climbs the steep path, until a cleft in the rocks appears to his right. Inside, he can just see stone steps descending into the darkness.

The knight casts one last look on his home. The chilled lake, the glittering towers, the ancient cathedral, towering over the valley. No sound breaks through the frozen silence. Irithyll lies serene, undisturbed. _And so it shall remain_.

His hand grips the frozen straight-sword tighter. Abruptly, he turns to the cavern and enters, without another look back.

Inside his pocket, a ring weighs heavy.

* * *

The sorcerer keeps muttering to himself, hunched over his book. Lately, that is all he ever seems to do. Swarms of soul fragments flicker about him as if vying for his attention. He takes no note of them, completely focused on his work.

The Outrider watches over the slumped figure from the adjoining room. His sword rests against a bookshelf nearby; where he can reach it in an instant should someone enter. Not that he expects anyone to come: the sorcerer has sealed the entry and outside his colleagues stand watch, lighting every crevice with their candelabrums. If something hostile approached, they would know immediately.

He is only the last in a host of defences for the sorcerer, though likely the most formidable. On his orders, no one who manages to enter this room is to leave it again, one way or the other: the sorcerer's work must not be disturbed. The knight can't help but feel a swell of pride: the Pontiff has chosen him for this most important of tasks. On the finger of the knight's left hand, the symbol of his trust pulsates rhythmically; a steady reminder of the knight's duty and his importance.

Yet he can't deny a certain sense of wariness of his surroundings: these Archives have a truly eerie feel to them. It is very quiet, but it's less a calm silence than a tense one. Every so often it is broken by cries in the distance, cries he cannot locate the source of; no matter how strained he listens. The scholars, with their waxen protection, ignore it, and so he has tried to do the same, not entirely successful. It doesn't help that the cries sound barely human.

The last days have been strangely calm, however. The sorcerer seems to have made progress, from what the knight can tell from his ramblings, at least. In the absence of intruders, the Outrider has devoted his attention to his weapon and ring, allowing himself moments of reminiscence. But as quiet as it is, lately he has been experiencing a sense of growing unease that is different from the usual eeriness of this place. He has taken to pacing the room, restless, anticipating something to happen at any moment. It really is _too_ quiet.

His vague feeling grows, turns into a sense of foreboding. His hairs begin to stand on end; he feels something dangerous approaching. The scholars outside don't seem to feel it; they continue on their slow patrols as if nothing was wrong. _Blind fools, they…_

Suddenly, the library is gone, submerged in a thick mist. The knight only has time for one hurried look at the sorcerer, still slumped over his book, before everything becomes dark and formless. He freezes where he stands; his suspicion was founded. Carefully, he turns on the spot, attempting to find the danger in the fog. For whatever has slipped past the guards, it must have ill intentions for his charge.

Then, as soon as it came, the mist is gone again, but so is the room. The Outrider eyes his surroundings with confusion: he is standing on a barren plain. There is no wind and no sky: the plain is submerged in a dim twilight; nothing like the sunlit rooftops above, unlike even the moonlight over Irithyll.

Like a distant echo, the sound of steel ringing on steel permeates the air. The knight turns slowly, peering into the distance, yet there is nothing in sight, just emptiness.

If he didn't know better, he would think he'd fallen into slumber. This is not right. He closes his eyes, blocks out the strange mirage. When he opens them again, he is surrounded by the familiar bookshelves of the library once more. His sword is in his hand. He can't remember to have picked it up.

 _What was that?_ A quick look into the next room: the sorcerer is still there, muttering, unaware of what is going on. Only then does the Outrider notice that he is suddenly on all fours, crouching like a readied spring. He straightens up, sword still in hand, and shoots a quick look at the entry. No intruder, the scholars are still patrolling. Why, then, is the blood suddenly pounding in his ears?

Nothing about his surroundings indicates any danger, but he knows better than not to rely on his instincts. Moving slowly and with caution, he begins to pace the room, examining every device, every shelf. There has to be something hostile in here. Something snuck past the defences and tried to influence him. But even the very last corner of the room is empty. It is filled with nothing but old books, dust, and the mutterings from next-door. Irritated, the Outrider makes for the sorcerer's study…

The images flicker before his eyes again. The unintelligible words of his charge disappear; suddenly he can hear the fighting again, closer than before. A rush of adrenaline runs through him; he is ready for them, yet still there is no foe in sight.

With effort, he snaps out of it. At a run he hurries through the door- to find the souls still circling around the crouched man, who has now given up even the attempt of speaking. But he is still breathing, alive and unharmed; nothing here poses a danger to him.

 _It's this place_. All this knowledge around him, it seems to do strange things to the people here. Right then, another cry rings through the hall, but far-off. He looks again at the sorcerer. Whatever it is the Pontiff set this man to, he should finish it soon, before he can no longer form words. Or before the Outrider himself is too affected by this place.

He returns to his post, fully alert, sword in hand, eyes on the entry. He will have to fight off this eerie influence if he is to remain vigilant; the Pontiff's aims must not be thwarted by these strange annoyances. He straightens up: He is of the Boreal Valley! This is too important…

There is a noise right behind him. His sword cuts the empty air as he spins around. Nothing. Another mirage.

He finds himself envying the sorcerer for his waxen shield, what little good it does him.

* * *

The autumn sun suddenly feels cold. The Undead pause in their activities as the trees begin to shiver in the wind that rises from the valley below. An unnatural chill seeps through the settlement, as if winter had fallen early. Hoar frost forms on the worker's tools. The villagers are quick to hurry inside and bar the doors, those with a rest of sense left in them at least. Those who do not care anymore, or have lost the ability to do so, soon hear a noise echoing through the frozen air: a pair of heavy boots, echoing on the rough-hewn stone. It draws steadily closer.

Two figures come into view. They move in unison, walking side by side, yet they are nothing alike.

The warrior on the left- for that is what he is, undeniably- wears a layer of thick blue-hued plate, matching the brilliant colour of the eyes that shine behind the helmet. He is tall; twice the size of the Hollows, who instinctively make way as he approaches. On his broad shoulders rests a heavy two-handed mace. It leaves a trail of ice particles in its wake. His left carries a pole, with a small piece of cloth attached to it. His helmet faces sternly ahead; not a glance is spared for the Hollows as he walks past, each of his heavy steps punctuated by a tremor in the ground.

His companion looks almost brittle in comparison: Where he is broad, she is thin, where his steps shake the earth, hers make nary a sound. Her armor is shaped vaguely like his, yet where his is plain thick plate, hers is made of lighter steel and embroidered with gold. It is not the outfit of a warrior.

The Hollows shrink before her nonetheless. For in her belt shimmer two sharp scimitars; red and blue, fire on the right, ice on the left. Her every movement spells deadly, feline grace, and in contrast to her companion, her head turns to the villagers, an empty stare behind a set of bars. An aurora veil flows behind her like mist, giving her an ethereal look.

Even the mad inhabitants of the settlement know better than to get in these two's way.

The uneven pair proceeds towards the broken bridge. They pass the dead or dying pilgrims whose journey ended here. Above them, the red roofs and thick walls of Lothric rise on the mountain, unreachable ever since the bridge collapsed. The knight steps forward, to the edge of the abyss, and raises his banner. He watches the crescent moon unfold and flicker proudly in the wind. The two companions observe the distant castle closely. After a moment, five small figures rise above the battlements and fly towards them.

Vordt watches them with apprehension. It is the final step of their journey, and entrusting their life and their mission to a pair of fickle demons is not to his liking. His companion shares the feeling, that much is clear. He casts a glance to her still form; she seems frozen to the spot. The usual silence surrounds her like a cloak, but now it is heavy-laden with melancholy. He does not like seeing her like that in the least, but he can't deny a similar feeling in himself.

Subconsciously, the Dancer's hand moves down to her belt. There, underneath her scimitar, a small piece of brown cloth sticks out, barely visible. Her Master would not approve of her keeping it, she knows: it's the torn remains of a talisman. She notices her companions glance. Her fingers close around the relict, holding on for the shortest of moments. Then she let's go, focusing on the nearing demons once again.

Vordt follows her example. Maybe it gives her some comfort, at least. He understands why she keeps it, and he has refrained from informing the Pontiff of it. Because what harm is there in a little remembrance?

The carriers have arrived at the lower wall. They are stronger than they look; in no time at all they have flown the pair up the cliff and landed them at the broken entrance of the castle. Before the Outrider, the great gate of Lothric looms.

Only a little further now.

At the giant oaken doors, the Dancer and the Knight stop. As one, they turn to look over the valley behind them. In the distance, shrouded in mist, the ancient spires of the cathedral rise to the sky. The sun casts warm rays over their armor, yet they hardly feel it; for in Irithyll, unseen by them, the moon still shines over the valley.

It's hard to turn away. Reluctantly, Vordt looks at his friend, standing still beside him. Her face behind the cage is unreadable, as ever. Yet her eyes are still fixed on the distant cathedral, he knows. It would be best to give a quick farewell, for it will only become harder the longer she hesitates, but he doesn't tell her so: For her, the farewell means much more than to him; it is not his place to urge her to hurry. But they both have a duty placed upon them. And it does not lie in the valley.

Finally, she turns away. The hall they enter lies empty and their strides are fast, rapidly leaving the broken bridge behind. The doors on the other end have already been opened. Lothric Castle lies beyond.

They stop again: This is farewell. The knight hesitates for the briefest of moments; the he extends an arm to his companion.

For a heartbeat, she remains motionless. Then her hand moves to his elbow, graceful as ever. Yet her grip is firmer than usual, and the eyes behind the bars catch his, trying to express what she cannot voice. He returns the gesture on equal terms, bidding his friend goodbye for the first and last time.

The next moment she is gone, climbing the steps of the courtyard beyond the walls. The Outrider looks after her long after she is out of sight. He is alone, now. Instinctively, his hand reaches into his pocket to feel the comforting weight of the Eye-Ring.

* * *

A roar, and then a wall of fire engulfs the courtyard, burning everything in its path. Even his frozen plate smoulders and begins to melt. The Outrider hastily retreats into the nearest building, stumbling out of the way of the heat. The fire roars behind him as he seeks shelter behind the nearest column, allowing his armor to cool down. The heat finally recedes, leaving the stench of burned stone and metal in its wake.

He carefully glances around the pillar, watching the giant lizard crouch on the building on the other side of the yard. Flames flicker behind its teeth again, as if it was only waiting for him to come back outside. He hisses in frustration: there is no getting past this way. The iron-gate at the far end of the courtyard is shut firm; Lothric's knights be damned for closing it now of all times. The dragon keeps watching him from its perch, clearly intent on not letting him past. But there has to be a way!

There is a sudden noise behind him and something heavy hits his back, sending him stumbling forwards. Fury surges in his chest as he turns around to the guilty: one of the mad Hollows; it has followed him in. It has no time to regret its action. An icy blur, too fast to see, and the heavy iron axe clatters to the floor, followed by its owner, a single freezing hole in its chest.

It provides a grim satisfaction, but it does nothing to soothe his failure. As the Outrider turns his back on the dragon and steps back out onto the terrace facing away from it, the Archive looms above him, its towers flashing in the sunlight. So close, but out of reach if he doesn't soon find a way up.

His eyes instinctively search the sky for a reassuring trace of moonlight, in vain, of course. Irythill is far away; he is alone up here.

There is a strangled scream to his right and something is running towards him. A quick spin, a thrust, and his rapier buries itself into a decaying eye socket. The creature struggles for a moment before the red light in his eyes dies. He wrenches his weapon free. Why have the scholars up there not taken action against this spreading madness? The Pontiff must know of this, must call them to order. But he cannot return home to inform him of it; he has to reach the sorcerers up in the Archives and get them to send warning to the Pontiff.

All this is no use. There is only the one way up there, and Lothric has closed it, in a fit of madness, most likely. The knight cast a look down at the dead Hollow at his feet. Everything in the castle seems to be determined to stop him; what if this is on the Prince's orders? No, surely not. The reason matters not, anyway; the result is the same: he won't be able to fulfil his duty. For the first time since he can remember, the knight feels a sense of hopelessness.

His hand instinctively reaches for the ring, and hesitates for a moment. This is against his orders; he is supposed to don the parting gift only upon reaching the Archives.

But maybe with its power he can bypass the dragons and reach the gates. He needs to inform _someone_ up there of what is going on. If he is to be punished for it, so be it. The Pontiff has trusted in Lothric for too long.

* * *

A mad howl echoes over the plain. The ground trembles as the blue eyed knight bears down upon her. She dances out of the way with two quick steps, attacking with the next. Behind her, a giant mace shatters the ground where she stood moments ago. Half a heartbeat later, her swords slip between the heavy plate, one burning, the other freezing her foe. As he falls, her swords are already free again, ready to parry the blow of the knight who has charged her from the left. His sword is knocked from his grip and falls to the floor. A flash of red and blue, and then his head follows. Tremors behind her. She crouches to her knees before an icy chill passes over her neck; she spins around, avoiding the next crushing swing of the mace by an inch. He already draws back the weapon for another blow. The _Why?_ forming in her mind has no chance of leaving her lips. Her mind goes blank. With a mute cry she leaps towards him, plunging both swords into his chest, not even caring anymore if he hits her in turn. The familiar blue eyes stare at her, and for just a short moment they are clear, recognizing her, then they grow dull. He falls again, without a sound. And to her right, another figure rises, brandishing a rapier.

An odd tremor shakes the plain. She doesn't take her eyes of the new fighter, who is looking around in confusion, but while she is still waiting for him to attack, a sharp pull tugs at her. The warrior before her loses shape and turns into mist. There is a hint of blue light as her companion gets back onto his knees, supporting himself with his mace, and then he is gone, too.

 _The Basin._

It is not as much a clear thought as it is an instinct, a command. _From the Master, yes._ She has to…

The air greeting her is warm, too warm to be home. _Home?_

It doesn't matter. There is a figure below, already facing her. _They must not be allowed to live_. The Master's soft voice rings in her ears. She obeys.

With a muted sound, her feet hit the floor. In one smooth motion, she turns for the intruder and raises the burning scimitar. The Basin in the thief's hands clatters to the floor as she hastily reaches for her own weapon.

With slow, fluid motions the Dancer moves forward. The thief ducks behind her shield. Her face, showing hints of fear, is not one the Dancer remembers. She is grateful for it.

This is a much easier fight.


	6. Relict

**University has started again and we're getting piles of work at the moment, so updates to all stories will be less frequent. Also, I'm reading a lot of Shakespeare currently, so apologies if some of this language sounds strange.**

 **Have a good read and as always, please review.**

* * *

 **Relict**

Sunlight is flooding the ancient hall. Its brilliant rays shine through the tall pillars, supporting the domed roof of the Cathedral high above. They fall upon the marble floor and massive bronze doors. Upon a suit of golden armour.

The old Knight steps out onto the terrace. The gold flashes as he strides across the smooth stone, towards the precipice. The eyes behind the lion-helmet survey the magnificent city below, taking in every detail; the rooftops and cathedrals and battlements, all bathing in the sunlight. His weapon is held loosely at his side, in a show of easy confidence.

His once tanned skin has turned pale in the long time it has been hidden behind the gold. As always, there is the impulse to take it off, just for a few moments, to bathe in the brilliant sunlight. But it remains just that: an impulse. He knows better. His head rises slowly to peer at the shining orb that casts its glow over the entire city. He turns away abruptly: The sun is not warm. It is blinding.

He begins his walk around the perimeter. To either side of the giant door he just passed through, the giant sentries stand watch. Stiff, unblinking, unmoving. They are just as lifeless as the sun. As if there need be more reminders; reminders of how things had changed.

Long white claws extend towards him behind the side gate, only to be immediately drawn back into the shadows when the creature recognizes him. He doesn't spare it a look. These pets of his partner's disgust him, but so long as they keep him occupied, the Knight will not waste his spear on them. Still, it should have been real knights there, standing guard. But of their number so few remain that he can barely protect the palace itself, not to speak of the city. He can't stop his teeth from gritting soundlessly. Anor Londo deserves better than this. So much better.

The hammering at least is still the same. The Knight relaxes a bit at the familiar sight of the huge shape sitting in front of that tiny anvil. He allows himself the luxury of joining the smith for a few minutes, leaning against the wall and watching his work. The giant lacks Gough's wit and sense of humour, but he is an amiable fellow nonetheless, managing to take the Knight's mind off things for a few moments at least. He mumbles the occasional word now and then, but mostly he is completely absorbed by his work. Good simple soul. He doesn't mind the passing of time; as long as he can hammer away, he is happy.

While he carries on, the Knight's fingers run absentmindedly across the hilt of his cross-spear, one of the first weapons to leave this smithy. The giant knows his trade well: the blade is still as sharp as when it was forged. Only, in all this time it has become dull from lack of use. It is not the only one in that regard, the Knight reflects gloomily.

His eyes are drawn towards the outer wall; he almost wishes to spy a roar of fire or a flapping of wings over the battlements. He would relish a fight, a proper fight, as in the days of old.

A movement catches his attention. He squints: There are indeed wings appearing over the battlements, but they are small and white and pale, by no means worthy of a dragon. It's only the demons. And they are dropping something off on the outer wall. He takes a closer look. After observing that something for a few seconds, it begins to descend the stairs towards the city.

He has lingered long enough. With a farewell to the smith, he resumes his patrol, not without closing the gates on his way. It would take a solid battering ram to force entry here, and he has made sure to post his best remaining knights at every other possible entrance. The palace is as safe as it could be under the circumstances. Still, an ounce of uncertainty always remains, a fear that he hasn't done enough. Without allies on the outside, it is impossible to say what might be out there, just waiting for a moment's weakness.

Out of habit, the Knight cast his eyes upwards as he passes through the hall. The instinctive motion (it should long have passed) does not last for more than a second before he quickens his pace, shaking off the thought. There is no small shadow perched high on the pillars, no taunting and teasing remarks reigning down on him. He shakes his head. Never would he have thought he'd miss her presence like this.

As it is, there is just silence and sunlight.

The patrol through the palace chambers does not take long. His knights are standing guard, a little too silent, but still as alert as ever. The conversations are short, never going beyond the giving and receiving of orders. Such efficiency should please him, but even this remaining remnant somehow does not seem to mean much anymore. A spark has been extinguished, and now everything looks darker.

As he returns to the throne room, his eyes are immediately drawn by the central statue on the opposite end. The marble retains an eerie lifelikeness, as if a living body had only just become petrified: The cold stone eyes of Lord Gwyn stare down on him, still as vigilant as the God's himself, though lacking his warmth. _I am still here_ , the Knight answers quietly. He can't help his glance from straying to the empty pedestal to Gwyn's right, but again the impulse is quickly repressed. Brooding over what might have been will only limit his vigilance in the here and now.

A noise from the corner catches his attention. Had it been anything else, he would have welcomed the distraction, but in this case it only strengthens his nausea: Sitting beside a pillar is the bulging Executioner, busying himself with what appears to be a pile of clothes on the ground. He raises his absurdly small head at the sound of the Dragonslayer's boots on the marble. With a grunt, he acknowledges his presence, before turning his attention back to the pile. The Knight gives the slightest of nods before making for the elevator. As he strides past, a weak moan issues from the pile. A fat hand reaches for it and the sound dies abruptly.

His steps quicken once again. The Executioner has been made guardsman of the Princess along with him. That does not mean he has to endure his presence one moment longer than necessary.

Any of his fellow Knights could have stayed behind with him, he thinks as the platform ascends, in a rare moment of bitterness. Any would have been a better choice than- this. Any one of them.

Out of all the things passed, them he misses most.

The eyes of the Sun Princess, which used to be so full of life, look down upon him as he enters her chamber and takes his place by the door. In the first years, he has avoided meeting the empty gaze, but now he stares back, almost in defiance. The real Princess won't be tarnished by his loathing of this mirage; she is long gone, gone to a brighter place, hopefully. This, this is less than a shadow.

And he, the last Knight, has stayed behind, loyally as he has to be. Guarding the shadows of Anor Londo.

 _I am still here, my Lord Gwyn. I am still here._


	7. A Meeting in the Ruins

**A Meeting in the Ruins**

* * *

„What do you want from an old, stone-humped hag?"

Nothing. But we are both here, which means the other one can follow me. Hopefully he won't have to; hopefully I will find what I came for and return in time. But I have to make certain…

"Oh, go on ahead; no need to humour this old relict. I'm content just taking in the view."

You sound like an ancient soul; you've deserved to see the end of the world in peace. I will not disturb you, I have my own path to take. Goodbye. Maybe you'll watch over me from here should I fall, and then when I try again. Maybe she will watch me return with my task fulfilled. I'd like to think that's what will happen. I'd hope to see the snow again.

"It's magnificent, isn't it?"

Magnificent, yes. And chaotic, and dying. And hopefully still full of souls.

* * *

Maybe the old hag was still sitting there. It was impossible to tell: The ledge was so far above him now, he had to crane his neck to even see it. Maybe she had watched his entire way down. Or maybe the entire heap had shifted in the time he made his descent, and he was looking at a completely different piece of rubble. There was no telling what was possible in this place.

A horrible scream resounded over the ruins. No time for these musings: Gael dived behind a rock, as a beam of light hit the ground where he stood a moment ago. He froze behind his cover: A malformed shadow glided over his hiding place; the old knight could feel the creature's glare passing over him. He remained completely still; ready to jump again any second.

But there was no second scream: he saw the shadow turn, and seconds later it had left his little area. Gael peered out from behind his cover to watch it reclaim its prior position, hovering like a grotesque butterfly over the ruins. He cursed silently; by now he truly wished he had equipped a crossbow with more reach to finally remove this thing. Then again, even if he could somehow hit it that would probably just tickle the thing, if he judged the situation correctly. No, aggression was clearly not an option here; he would have to keep running.

The one positive was that the thing wasn't too bright. A long, nerve-wracking game of hide and seek later, he found himself within the confines of a giant earthen structure, shielded from the gaze of the Angel (at least that was how he referred to it in his mind, based on old Lothric tales of some kind of graceful flying creature. These tales had, however, failed to mention what a pain such things could be.) The old knight took a moment to gain his bearings: the structure he was in at present was vast, though largely collapsed. It also was the only place he hadn't yet explored, and the Angel was effectively preventing him from doing anything else.

The silver lining to this situation finally showed itself after he clambered over a mass of giant roots that had grown into the building, and suddenly found himself right before the welcome sight of a bonfire. It was with some fatigue that he sat down next to the crackling flames and allowed himself a moment of rest. The place was bathed in sunlight; the building seemed to have just broken apart, and the part that remained abruptly ended here in a fragile stone walkway, almost like a plank. When Gael walked onto that ledge with the utmost caution, a giant chasm came into view; a black hole within the stump of an ancient tree. The walkway abruptly ended over the chasm. If there had once been a path down, it had long since crumbled, and now, no matter in which direction he looked; there was no way left to go.

But there had to be. Gael took a few careful steps toward the edge. There had to be some place left he hadn't explored yet, he had to have missed something. When he peered down into the black, he thought for a second he could see a glow deep inside the tree; but the next moment it was gone, and he wondered whether he had just imagined it. To his left, the Angel was still hovering, still out of reach. His shoulders slumped a little: It all seemed futile. He had searched everywhere he could possibly reach, had fought anything a small human with a sword could. What more could he do?

Suddenly, the old knight became aware of a presence behind him. _Right_ behind him. He had lowered his guard for a single moment. With a quick step he spun around, his feet on the brink of the chasm, drawing his sword in the same motion, and brought it down in a horizontal slash.

There was a hollow metallic sound. The greatsword made contact with a bronze-coloured breastplate and was deflected to the side, making him almost lose his balance. With an effort he regained his footing. The suit of armour that the breastplate belonged to took a hasty step back: "Ho! A good day to you, too!"

Gael had overcome his surprise and was facing the intruder in a fighting stance, the sword's tip pointed right at his heart. He surveyed him over the tip: Smooth armour made of thick plates, barely a gap between each. The helmet, a long, heavy thing, was covering his entire face, except for two small eye slits. Not easy to find weak points. The entire thing had to way a ton; how this one could have approached him so silently was beyond Gael. And now he was just standing there, almost causally. He had not even drawn his weapon, a black blade with a long hilt that was strapped to his back. He behaved as if he had just casually greeted Gael, not snuck up on him on the brink of a chasm. "Hello?" he greeted the strange fellow.

"Hello." The muffled voice sounded oddly cheerful.

Gael did not lower his guard. "What do you want?"

"I don't know." the man replied. "I just saw you walk onto this ledge, and decided to follow you. I must have had some good reason, right?"

There was a moment's silence before Gael asked: "And?"

"And what?"

"And what reason would that be?"

"Couldn't tell you for the life of me. It just felt- right, you know what I mean?" He laughed at Gael's narrowed eyes: "Come now, you forgive an old Hollow his bad memory! If it comes back to me, I'll tell you, truly."

This was a very strange encounter. "You don't sound hollow, friend." He seemed to have his wits about him well enough. Then again, loss of memory was one of the first signs of Hollowing, and probably the worst in Gael's opinion. It didn't make people any less dangerous, though. And all that presupposed that the intruder's claim was even sincere.

"Neither do you, friend." The suit stretched out his armoured hand: "Always nice to meet someone sane who has made it to the end of the world. Call me Lapp."

Gael was so perplexed that he shook it, expecting a sudden move at any moment. Nothing happened. _Well_. "Gael. You do remember you name, then."

"No. But Lapp sounds nice, I guess." There was a hollow laughing sound behind the metal helmet.

If this was a trick to get him killed, this Lapp was putting a lot of effort into his charade. Gael was beginning to believe that he was sincere, suspicious though his initial behaviour was. He lowered his sword, just a little: "Condemn me, but I tend to be a little suspicious of people who sneak up on me. Especially in locations like this."

Lapp raised his hands: "Couldn't blame you; my apologies. I tend to do these things, they just come over me. Just glad you haven't fallen off, fellow."

This strange conversation was not really going anywhere, and it didn't help his present predicament. Gael cast his eyes away from the stranger for the first time and over the surrounding rubble. He had searched every place he could reach, and except for this odd Hollow and the old lady above he hadn't found a single soul worth his while. The only place left where he hadn't yet looked was down that dark hole in the tree. But a second look confirmed his first impression: There was no safe way to get down there, not without breaking every bone in his body.

"Looking for something, are you?"

He hummed a vague confirmation, glancing at the armoured figure. Lapp didn't really seem hostile, after all, but there was still no need for him to know why exactly Gael was here.

He heard the armour clinking: "Well, till you've found it, why don't we share a drink, the two of us?" Lapp produced a flask and cup from somewhere. "Can't remember where I got it from, but that doesn't diminish its flavour."

Gael turned away from the abyss and regarded the sitting fellow. This was really not what he had expected in this heap of rubble. But it was beginning to look like a somewhat nice surprise, and he was in no great hurry to attempt a potentially fatal leap: He sheathed his sword and sat down next to the odd man, accepting the offered drink. They must make a strange sight; sharing a flask right next to the abyss. Lapp raised his cup: "To your sword, my…ah, you know how it goes. Drink up!"

"To my Lady." Gael replied. They drank. It was a good drink indeed, if only because it actually had a flavour. The knight felt some energy return to his body after the long rush down to this place.

"Oh my, you're one of those with a _cause_ , aren't you?"

Lapp's voice suddenly sounded sharp; indeed, there suddenly was a kind of maliciousness to it that almost made the old knight reach for his sword again. But again, this change felt too sudden to be intentional. Gael looked at Lapp carefully. Maybe that was the Hollowing progressing. He wished he could see past the headpiece, to have any hint of what he was dealing with, but it covered every inch of his face. Then Lapp took another sip and began to hum a tune; carefree as before.

Maybe he had just misjudged. Not likely, but a possibility. _Let's see_ …Gael gave a quick smile: "Indeed I am." He scrutinized his host: "So must you be, if you made it all the way here."

"Me? Oh no, no; no cause for me." Lapp's voice was back to normal; he gave no indication that he was aware anything had happened. "I'm just sort of wandering about, meeting folk, maybe find some riches…No, wait." He hit the metal plate over his forehead: "Damned memory! Yes, I know; I wanted to go fix that, finally. There's supposed to be a cure, somewhere deep down below in the Ringed City; that's where I was going! The Purging Monument, if it then exists." He grunted: "Maybe I'll have to write that down somewhere."

The Ringed City, once again. "The old woman up there mentioned it as well." Gael recalled.

Lapp visibly brightened up: "The old hag's still moving? She provided me with this magnificent blade, as it happens." He raised the black hilt and spun it once above their heads. "She also insists on calling me a 'clamouring old tin can', but otherwise I quite liked her."

"An apt description." Gael said, his thoughts far away. The Ringed City; that ancient legend about the place at world's end. Well, this here well looked like the world's end. If the city was more than a legend, after all… The home of the pygmies…

"You still haven't told me why you're here." Lapp pointed out after a moment's silence. "Found what you were looking for yet?"

Gael glanced at the dark hole below. _Maybe_.

The Hollow followed his gaze. "Down there?" He laughed: "You're even madder than I am, I see. Not that should stop an Undead." He drank the last of his cup. "I'd be careful, though: I saw something glowing down there earlier. I'd say it was treasure, but knowing this place I sooner expect it to be another of those horrible angels." Just then, a strange noise rose up from the hole. "Oh, and there's something big moving down there." Lapp added cheerfully.

Gael peered down into the abyss. It was a _long_ way down. But yet- if the dark souls of the pygmies might be found there, he had to risk it. He would find no better pigment, no matter how long he searched. He turned back to Lapp, who seemed to be watching him expectantly.

 _Maybe just this once_ … "Seeing as we have the same destination, what do you say we make our way down there together? If the Ringed City exists somewhere, it would be down there." Or maybe he just wanted it to be. Not that it made a difference; he had to try.

Lapp thought on it. "You sound mad and reasonable at the same time, fellow. I suppose it's possible... And if not, then I can still say I've fallen from the highest ledge there is. Nothing to lose." He clapped: "That's why it's always good to meet people! Can't think of everything yourself. Especially as an amnesiastic Hollow." His armour clinked as he got to his feet and took up his weapons.

Gael stood up as well, watching him walk towards the brink. He seemed to have misjudged him: Even though he was hollowing out, Lapp still appeared like a good soul. And very optimistic in the face of losing everything. Losing everything…

 _Can I be so selfish not to tell him? Yes. I have to be._

"You know that this world will end, soon?" he asked, surprising himself. Lapp stopped and turned his helmet in his direction. "The fire is going out. Even if you should find you're cure, you won't be able to savour it for long." He hesitated: "But there is…"

"But I'll be there when the world dies." Lapp said. There was something new in his voice: pride. "I'll still be there when the Great Ones are long rotting in the ground; a little Hollow outliving them all." He strapped his shield onto his back and raised the sword in a mock salute. "And who knows, maybe the Darkness isn't as bad as they say; maybe I'll just live through that as well, ey? I've yet to find something that could kill me for good!"

And with that he took a step backward and disappeared from view. When Gael stepped to the brink, he could see him getting smaller fast, disappearing into the black. After a long while, a tiny flame appeared on the spot where he had vanished; maybe a torch. Then it began to move. He couldn't see it, but he imagined Lapp was waving for him to follow.

He took his own sword from its sheath. It was beginning to grow dull, no matter how much he honed it, but it still served its purpose. He cut of another piece of his worn red cloak and fastened it to the very edge of the ledge. As a path marker for the other Ash. Gael hoped he had followed. He had begun to like this Lapp, but he couldn't share his confidence that they would indeed make it back.

Down below, a black shadow and a fiery mass were moving around the little dot of light that was his temporary companion. The old knight took a steep back. He looked up to the sky once, tightened the grip on his sword and made the leap into the chasm.

* * *

 **Was I the only one who expected Patches to appear behind me when I saw that ledge?**

 **Anyway, I wanted to write about Gael for some time, and Lapp is legitimately one of my favourite things from the DLC, so this is the result. Have a good read.**


End file.
